Walking down to the beach was no easy task; an enormous mound of rock separates the farmland of one person from the ocean that no one can really own. The rocks on this levee of sorts are small enough to hold, but big enough to be heavy, thousands of them. I slipped and slid the entire way down to the beach. The first step, the step that moves me from the unsteadiness of slippery rocks to the sand that squishes between my toes, tells me how beautiful Ireland is. As I walk towards the water, memories of times long since gone bombard me. Things in my life that are happy, or wonderful, or powerful come to mind.
Lost in my reverie, the icy water startles me back to reality. Looking up, not only can I see my four year old cousin, with his sandy blond hair and huge, innocent eyes, running to greet me, but I can also hear his laughter. Ireland is good for him as well, I think.
When his short legs finally get him to me, he jumps into my arms. Spinning him around wildly, I can only think to myself that my favorite sound will always be his laughter.